


Trying Not to Get My Hopes Up

by Kacka



Series: The Art of Looking for Trouble [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-03
Updated: 2016-03-03
Packaged: 2018-05-24 14:05:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6156032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kacka/pseuds/Kacka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bellamy is trying so hard to stop having feelings for Clarke. She's out of his league for a number of reasons, not least of which is that she's the daughter of the President of the United States.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trying Not to Get My Hopes Up

**Author's Note:**

> Because I'm on a West Wing binge and reminiscing about college. Stay in school, kids.

“What’s another word for assclown?”

Bellamy adjusts his glasses on his face as he looks up at Clarke.

It’s about the fourteenth time she’s interrupted his poor attempt at getting a reading done, but he’s the one who told her she could hang out between classes, and these are technically his office hours. He’s here to help students, even if their questions aren’t related to his class. This could kind of be considered working. Or at least that’s how he’ll explain it if his supervisory professor has a problem with it.

“That depends,” he says thoughtfully, stretching until his back pops. Miller winces but, as usual, doesn’t comment.

About half the things Bellamy does during office hours (that aren’t strictly in his job description) are unfruitful attempts to provoke the stubbornly quiet man into engaging in conversation, and the other half are mostly to get Clarke to laugh or roll her eyes. It’s helpful how often his two goals overlap.

“On?” She asks, her fingers still poised over her keys.

“What you’re working on. If it’s a Tumblr rant and you’re looking for something creative, that’s a whole different part of my brain I’d have to use than if you’re writing a paper and trying to make it sound more scholarly.”

“You’re saying calling a primary source author a ‘racist assclown’ isn’t sophisticated enough for my Empires and Colonialism class?”

“I’m advising you against using it more than once. Variation is just as important to good writing as precise language.”

“Obviously. I’m not new at this.” She chews on her lip as she studies what she’s written so far and he averts his eyes. He gets really distracted when she does that, his mind going to places that are definitely out of bounds. For a range of reasons. “How’s crusty snotnugget?”

“I don’t know. With language like that, you might get beaten up on the playground at recess.”

“The shitweasel in question has been dead for four hundred years. I’ll take my chances.”

One of his students chooses this moment to drop in, and he talks them through some concepts from the lecture earlier in the week while Clarke resumes her typing. By the time he gets the student to leave, his office hours are over and he has about twenty minutes to eat the lunch he packed before he has to get to a meeting with his senior thesis advisor.

“As fun as coming up with colorful insults is, I feel like you’re only making more work for yourself,” he tells Clarke between bites. Miller has closed the door and taken a seat with them at the table.

“I know,” she sighs, saving her document and closing her laptop. “I’ll save them for my next Tumblr rant about the republican primaries.”

“How’s your mom doing with all that, anyway?”

Clarke’s face smooths into the one she wears for the press: all diplomacy and controlled features. He hates seeing that mask on her, hates it even worse when it fades into a sad, distant expression.

“She’s dealing. The last campaign was hard, but this is harder.”

Bellamy nods. He’s been following Abby Griffin’s campaign, partially because she’s Clarke’s mom and partially because he would have anyway. He followed the last one too, watched her and Jaha fight tooth and nail for a black President and a female VP.

Watched her party tout them as evidence that they’re not racist or sexist, and then turn their backs when it came to light that Jaha had broken laws to cover up a ton of stuff that Jake Griffin had intended to blow the whistle on before his untimely death. Jaha resigned halfway through his first term and Abby Griffin had become the President.

He hadn’t known Clarke then. He’d been vaguely aware that she went to his university, but she was a year behind him and made a point of being as inconspicuous as possible. It wasn’t until she showed up on the roster for one of the first seminars he was a TA for that he’d even known she was a political science major.

She’d been gone a lot from class that semester, dealing with things. It drove her to his office hours almost every time he held them, to review the new material and argue her case for makeup assignments. The more he saw of her, the less he considered her just another face in his class, albeit a famous one, and the more he saw her as a friend.

He won’t admit that maybe sometimes he thinks of her as more than that. She was his student when he began thinking this way, for one thing. For another, she’s way out of his league: beautiful and brilliant, all sharp edges hidden behind a marble facade, cool and flawless. Not to mention that she’s a public figure. She could do way better than him.

Now her mother is fighting again, this time for her party’s nomination, and with the spotlight back on the Griffins he wonders if Clarke will ever catch a break.

“Is it harder for you?”

She gives him a small smile.

“Is it bad if I say no? It’s not easy for me, but nothing about the past year and a half has been easy. Things were just starting to die down, but now it’s election season and I’m getting just as many phone calls, just as many emails, just as many reporters hounding me as I was when the stuff about my dad first came out.”

“So basically you want to murder just about everyone and have no privacy in which to do so.”

Her smile blooms a little wider.

“Top-notch nutshelling.”

“Well, if you need help burying any bodies, let me know. I used to clear driveways for old ladies when it snowed in high school so I have my own shovel and everything.”

“Good, because that was my main concern.” She pulls her glasses off to clean them on the hem of her shirt, and her eyes seem impossibly bigger and bluer without them. He looks away and catches Miller smirking at him. “I do have friends, you know. And a secret Tumblr. I can rant and rave and mobilize maybe fifteen whole people to help me hide bodies.”

“Yeah, but do they have their own shovels?”

“I haven’t asked.”

“Then you’re lucky to have me as a backup. You know, just in case.”

* * *

From: hippogriffin@gmail.com  
To: brblake@ark.edu  
Subject: bodies, shovels, etc.

you free tonight? i need an accomplice.

 

From: brblake@ark.edu  
To: hippogriffin@gmail.com  
Subject: Re: bodies, shovels, etc.

New phone who dis

 

From: hippogriffin@gmail.com  
To: brblake@ark.edu  
Subject: poor use of memes

i literally hate everyone right now. i was going to make a special exception for you but i take it all back.

 

From: brblake@ark.edu  
To: hippogriffin@gmail.com  
Subject: All-Encompassing Hatred

What happened?

 

From: hippogriffin@gmail.com  
To: brblake@ark.edu  
Subject: it’s like we’re not even friends

seriously, are you busy? can i come hang out?  
also i don’t have your address or your phone number. are you even on facebook? all i have is your dumb school email. this would be so much easier over texting.

 

From: brblake@ark.edu  
To: hippogriffin@gmail.com  
Subject: Are we officially friends now?

I’m in Baker 308. Come whenever.

* * *

She shows up within thirty minutes, Miller in tow, and she looks pissed. She collapses next to Bellamy where he’s sitting on his futon and chipping away at a Latin translation while some Pokemon movie he found on Netflix plays in the background.

He’s never pictured Clarke in his space, but the President’s daughter, Catallus, and Pikachu all in one room make for a kind of surreal party.

“You’re a senior. Why do you still live in the dorms?”

“Because RAs get free housing, a free meal plan, and a paycheck.” He pauses the show and sets his Latin aside, turning to face Clarke. “What happened?”

“This girl in Poli 250 has been feeding reporters comments I make in class,” she says, her eyebrows knitting together.

“Isn’t that a class on electoral policy and campaigns?” Bellamy recalls, dread settling in the pit of his stomach.

“I come off in the article as opposing my mother’s entire platform. I’m not saying it’s inaccurate, but I try to keep that on the down low. Her press secretary ripped me a new one, and then the President called and did it herself.”

Bellamy places a hand on her shoulder and she leans into it, soaking up the comfort.

“Do you know who talked?”

“Lexa Wood.”

Bellamy nods. He’s had a couple of classes with her, and knows her to be someone who doesn’t mind voicing her opinion or doing what has to be done to get ahead.

“Weren’t you guys friends?” He asks, tentative.

“We used to be. She asked me out last year. We went on a few dates, but it was too soon after my last relationship so I asked her to give me time.” She looks down at her hands, clasped in her lap. “She was distant and cold after that, even during all the stuff with my mom.”

“And you think she’s out for blood because you turned her down?”

“I think she’s ambitious and opportunistic. I used to like that about her. Still, it could be worse. She could have identified herself as my ex-girlfriend and outed me to the world.” Her eyes flicker quickly to Bellamy’s and then away again. “Not that I’m not planning to come out soon. It’s just never seemed like the right time, what with my dad dying, and then all the stuff he uncovered coming to light. I’m planning to do it after the primaries.”

“That’s brave,” Bellamy says. “How are you going to do it?”

She bites her lip, looking up at him nervously through her lashes, and he tells himself to get a grip.

“I’ve been working on writing an op-ed about public perceptions of bisexuality,” she tells him, anxious enough that he wonders how many people she’s officially come out to. “I’m going to send it to a reporter I don’t loathe professionally and personally.”

“Good for you,” he says, smiling and squeezing the hand that’s still on her shoulder.

“Thanks,” she says softly, dropping his gaze, eyes landing instead on his laptop. “Are you actually getting any work done?”

“Not a chance.”

“Can I watch Pokemon with you until I feel better?”

“Of course. Stay as long as you want. But I have to say, I don’t think Pokemon is as therapeutic as you’re giving it credit for.” She laughs and scoots toward him to make room for Miller on the futon.

“Yeah, it’s definitely the show that’s going to make me feel better,” she says, staring fixedly at the synopsis she pulled up so she can try to tell what she’s missed so far.

He feels a little lurch in his chest at the thought that out of all fifteen of the people she could have called upon to help her hide bodies, he’s the one she wanted to make her feel better.

Instead of doing something stupid and acting upon it, he leans forward to speak to Miller.

“These are the moments the Secret Service trained for, am I right?”

“Backstabbing, fame-hungry exes or watching cartoons with lame teachers’ assistants?” He replies, and Bellamy grins.

“You tell me.”

“My training material is classified.”

“If he told you, it wouldn’t be a very secret service, now would it?” Clarke adds, grabbing Bellamy’s arm and lifting it so she can fit herself underneath it, against his side.

He’s not sure when they became the kind of friends who cuddle, when he became her go-to person for comfort, but he’s glad he is. He wouldn’t want to be anywhere else right now.

* * *

 **Clarke:** if bring booze into your room do you have to report me

 

 **Bellamy:** Only for breaking and entering.

I’m not home.

 

 **Clarke:** did you suddenly develop a social life?

there’s a cure for that

it’s telling people that you do latin translations while watching pokemon

 

 **Bellamy:** 1) Rude.

1a) But true.

2) I’m on duty tonight.

 

 **Clarke:** 1- did you know that you’re conversationally anal retentive?

2- can i come hang out? i will hide my booze from your innocent freshmen

 

 **Bellamy:** 1) Don’t worry, my sister has definitely let me know.

2) It’s not the innocent ones I’m worried about.

3) Up to you. But Miller might arrest me if you literally die of boredom so make sure he knows you’re taking your life in your hands here.

 

 **Clarke:** i’ll pass it along

he says you’re a dumbass

 

 **Bellamy:** Is that better or worse than an assclown?

 

 **Clarke:** not sure

i’ll have to consult the ass spectrum

see you soon

* * *

“What exactly is it about me behind a desk–” Bellamy starts, but breaks off mid sentence because he’s just noticed that Clarke’s blonde curls have been tamed into a classy updo and she’s wearing a red formal dress that’s leading his mind to inappropriate places.

“Wow,” he says, having completely missed any opportunity he had to play it cool. “You look– fancy.”

“Thanks?” She says, giving him an uncertain smile and sitting gracefully in a vacant chair. A girl he’s never seen before is trailing her and posts up next to the door with a smirk on her face reminiscent of Miller’s. Not three seconds and both of Clarke’s Secret Service Agents have him figured out.

“And gorgeous, obviously,” he says, still kind of finding his footing. “But that has less to do with the dress and hair and makeup.”

She smiles bigger, brighter now, and it’s a lot to take in so he barrels forward.

“What’s the occasion? Did I forget to tell you there’s no dress code for hanging out with the on-duty RA? They’ve never had to institute one, you see, because so few people willingly subject themselves to this level of dullness.”

“You’re telling me I got all dressed up for nothing?”

“If it helps, I appreciate the lengths you went to.”

“It does help.” He returns her grin because his night just got _so much_ better, and tries not to look in the direction of the agent by the door. “I had to go to this thing at the White House,” she says, kicking off her heels and propping her feet on his leg. “It was boring, but her Chief of Staff gave me the key to his liquor cabinet for behaving myself. I thought I’d share my spoils.”

“So we’re drinking–” She hands over the bottle for his inspection. “–something that costs more than I make in six months, out of the paper cups I have in my room?”

“You have paper cups?” She says, sounding impressed. “You’re way more prepared than I thought. I was planning to drink out of the bottle.”

“Classy.” He looks over to the agent now that he’s got his face under some modicum of control and extends a hand. “I’m Bellamy. You’re not Miller.”

“Astute,” the agent says, shaking his hand with a firm grip and a frightening smile. “Raven Reyes.”

“I’m glad to know he gets some time off. Can’t be easy, putting up with America’s Princess all day.” Clarke makes to kick him but he catches her ankle, keeping a hand on it even after she’s set it back down in his lap. Totally for safety reasons.

“Raven’s my overnight babysitter,” Clarke informs him.

“Don’t tell me that. I don’t want to get blamed because you jeopardized national security.” Clarke rolls her eyes and he looks back over at Raven. “I assume you’re not allowed to drink on the job?”

“Sadly, no.” She actually does look sad about it.

“I guess that makes you the DD then,” Clarke says, smirking when Raven shoots her a look. “That’s her restraining-rude-language face,” she tells Bellamy.

“I’m sure I’ll become familiar with it. I can’t close the desk until ten, so if you don’t want to wait another hour and a half, you don’t have to hang around here.”

“Nah,” Clarke says, settling into her chair further. “I’m exactly where I want to be.”

The time passes quicker with Clarke and Raven there. They blast 90’s pop that gets lots of whoops and uncoordinated dance moves from the students heading out to parties. He’s pretty sure some of them have been pregaming, but luckily can’t prove it. Then he might have to do something about it.

By the time he’s finished everything he needs to do, Clarke has shrugged his sweatshirt on overtop her elegant outfit and pulled the pins out of her hair, and he’s trying very hard not to blurt out any embarrassing confessions.

They’re guessing what different politicians’ Pokemon of choice would be based on their personality and appearance when they arrive at his room and it’s only mildly awkward. He hands Raven the keys and lets her check the room first, and is surprised when she rejoins them in the hall.

“You’re not coming in?”

“No offense, but watching you guys get drunk off expensive hooch isn’t my idea of a fun night. I’ll be out here until Clarke is ready to leave.”

“You think she’s safe, alone with me?”

“I think she could take you, Blake.”

Clarke pulls him into his room at that point and closes the door behind them, which is definitely not a thing he ever thought would happen outside his daydreams. He’s beginning to wonder if he’s hallucinated this whole night.

“I never told her my last name,” he says, off-kilter.

“You’ve been vetted,” Clarke says cheerily. “Now how about those paper cups I was promised?”

“Don’t judge too hard,” Bellamy says, digging around in his random shit drawer and passing her the cups when he finds them. They may or may not have characters from the My Little Pony franchise plastered all over them.

“Are you a brony?” She asks gleefully.

“Not really, I just have a sister who thinks she’s funny.”

“There’s no shame in being a brony, Bellamy. I already know about your affinity for cartoon animals. You don’t have to pretend.”

“First of all, Pokemon are not animals, and second, I’m not ashamed. I’m just not sure I’ve actually watched enough of the show to call myself a real fan. Now, are you gonna pour or what?”

They’re each a couple of drinks in when Bellamy catches Clarke watching him with a fond expression and stops himself mid-rant about why Charmander ought to be the clear choice over Bulbasaur and Squirtle.

He mostly stops because he’s a little tipsy on expensive alcohol and her face regularly makes his mind go blank, but he grapples to recover by nudging her and going, “What?”

“Did you know I asked Raven to give us some privacy?”

“Really?” He frowns, trying to remember their earlier conversations. “When?”

“On our way over to your dorm.”

She’s still looking at him with measurable affection, but he’s not sure what to do with it yet.

“I can’t decide if not subjecting her to my ranting makes you a good friend, or if making her sit in the hall this whole time makes you a bad one.”

She huffs and takes his cup from him, setting it with hers on the floor and scooting closer.

“Not that I don’t love ridiculous conversations about animated television series, but I was kind of hoping if we got some time alone, you might make a move.”

“Oh,” he says, swallowing hard as she loops her arms around his neck. “I’m glad you told me, because I would never have guessed.”

She leans her forehead against his and laughs softly, his hands coming up reflexively to brush her hair behind her shoulders before settling on her lower back.

“Never? I really thought I was being obvious.”

“It’s only fair to tell you that you probably were. I’ve been pretty convinced I didn’t have a shot with you, so I was aggressively not looking for signs that you’re into me.”

“Bellamy, you have had a lot of shots with me. But you’re about to miss this one, so–”

Pressing into her back with just the tips of his fingers, he closes the distance between them and kisses her like he means it. Kisses her _thoroughly_ because as much as he’s tried not to think about this moment, as much as he’s tried not to get his hopes up, he likes Clarke Griffin a lot, thinks she might be the perfect woman, thinks she definitely deserves to be kissed like she is.

“Is that the kind of move you were hoping for?” He asks, his voice embarrassingly affected as he pulls away.

“It’s a start,” she says, her own voice husky. “You’re very good at that.”

“Good enough you’ll forget you had to talk me into making a move?”

“Like I said," she pauses and leans in to kiss him this time. When she draws back, she's beaming big and close and it's more than he'd ever let himself hope for. "It’s a start.”


End file.
